Wedding in Cornwall Read online

  I cleared my throat, trying to rid myself of a little of the nervousness still clinging to me. "So, what can you tell me about my job at Cliffs House?" I asked. "Any hints before I meet my boss?" I tried to sound lighthearted as I asked.

  "Very little," he answered. "My job is second to Lord William's in managing the grounds and the practical purposes of the land, you see. Conservation, agriculture, and grounds management, that's my task, with Lord William overseeing it, and managing the financial side of the estate. He's also currently the chair of the local business and tourism union in Ceffylgwyn."

  "What about the tourism side of Cliffs House?"

  "That's Lady Amanda's field," answered Geoff. "She manages the estate's event planning and books guests and clients. She also designs all promotional and public literature for the estate and many of the business union's members. It was her idea to hire a full-time event planner at Cliffs House — there's no local event planners available for the task, you see."

  "How much do you know about the wedding that's taking place there?" I asked. I had already reviewed some of the details, of course, but in my excitement over the move they had become slightly muddled. If they were truly celebrities, surely even a tiny village like Ceffylgwyn was abuzz with the latest gossip about it.

  "Donald Price-Parker and Petal Borroway," he answered. "He's an English football player, quite successful and quite popular; she's a model of sorts, I've been told, working on the runway recently in the States. It should be quite the fashionable affair."

  I'd never heard of either of them — then again, I didn't watch British football or any of those 'how to become a model' shows, much less read Vogue and Vanity Fair outside the dentist's office. "Wow," I said. "That's a big assignment for my first day at work. I hope I don't disappoint." I tried to sound like I was kidding, but I wasn't. I was impressed and nervous, feeling a shiver travel from my spine to the soles of my feet.

  "Have you much experience in planning celebrity weddings?"

  "None," I answered. Too openly, I realized too late. And was glad I didn't mention anything more, like the fact that I'd never planned a wedding completely on my own. Something that Lady Amanda must surely know, but apparently didn't care about since I was here.

  Geoff Weatherby didn't say anything else about my work experience, I noticed. We were both fairly quiet until after we passed a road sign for Falmouth, and one for the turn to Ceffylgwyn and Cliffs House. The car traveled a stately driveway, bordered by neatly-trimmed hedges that still managed to affect a certain freedom and carelessness in their greenery that gave them character and life as they moved in the breezy rain. I glimpsed a large willow tree, and beautiful garden paths bordered by wild and colorful blossoms, untamed and rugged, with stones peeking out in between overgrown blooms and branches. I turned away, and before me was Cliffs House.

  Tall and stately. Not imposing, but reserved and dignified with its elegant stone exterior, a color between ivory and yellow, with little adornment except for the carved bowers above its arched windows, and the impressive stone carvings above its vast formal entrance, a set of double doors facing the cobblestone drive of olden days. A soft grey-tiled roof above, and multiple chimneys which signaled any number of gorgeous fireplaces somewhere inside. I fell in love at once, and my friends will tell you that doesn't happen easily — except for a pair of truly exceptional designer stilettos, perhaps.

  But this was something grand and hallowed. The closest I had ever seen to this impressive building was my first and only trip to the Guggenheim in New York, which impressed itself on my eight year-old mind and replaced Seattle's Space Needle as the world's most incredible building. I couldn't stop staring, even as I climbed out of Geoff's car and collected my bag from the back seat.

  "Welcome to Cliffs House, Miss Morgen," he said.

  ***

  "I'm so glad you're here," said Lady Amanda, with a little gasp of relief. "I thought I was going to be buried under fabric swatches and flower books for the rest of my life!"

  Lady Amanda definitely wasn't a dignified lady with a stiff upper lip and strings of pearls. She was ginger-haired, tall, and curvy, wearing a rather worn but beautifully-knit Guernsey style sweater and designer jeans. She greeted me like a long-lost school chum mere minutes after our formal introduction as employer and event planner, ushering me into a little sitting room on Cliffs House's main floor that had been converted into her office, where she managed Cliffs House's image as a public attraction.

  "I've been planning events on my own these past two years. Me and the kitchen staff," she continued, flopping down on an antique sofa. "It's exhausting how much I've handled, between that and the public relations work, which is every bit as important. But with the size and scale of these events growing every year — and tourism's on the rise again, thanks to television audiences — I can't possibly handle it on my own. So enter you, Julianne Morgen — chief event planner and coordinator to Cliffs House's growing number of guests."

  "I'm flattered," I answered. "I can't tell you how much so, actually." It felt surreal, sitting in this room that felt both historic and modern, surrounded by antiques and the soft colors and clean lines of modern decor. From the overstuffed pink armchair and gleaming, carved walnut desk to the silver floor lamps and Warhol prints, it was comfortable, cozy, and unbelievably elegant after the sterile flowers-in-a-frame-and-sentimental-smiling-brides decor of Design a Dream's workspace.

  "You must be planning a lot of events to hire someone full-time," I said. Even though I could see plenty of evidence that Lady Amanda was swamped with work — there were piles of half-printed brochures everywhere, and sketches for a printed tour guide to Cliffs House pinned to her design board, a cloth one covered with a soft print of architectural blueprints.

  "I want someone to take my place in the process," she answered. "If you haven't guessed already, event planning wasn't my chosen career."

  "Interior design?" I guessed, one eyebrow lifting. I had cast my eye over the books in her shelf while I was admiring her office. Several were on fabric, and on furniture history. "Or architecture?" I had seen the books on London city design and Venice's construction, and the well-marked one on historic Cornwallian building methods.

  "Clever girl," said Lady Amanda, sounding impressed. "It was interior design at first, but I had a turn for marketing that persuaded me to change my goals. Hence, my role in promoting tourism both for Cliffs House, and then for Ceffylgwyn itself."

  She poured a cup of tea from the silver service on the neighboring table, and passed it to me as she lifted her own. "William's as involved as he can be, given how little time he has between managing the estate's adjacent lands and the financial side of running a modern-day estate," she continued. "So it left us with no choice but to find someone to hire on permanently. Someone who could handle all the details big and small — from food to flowers, to emergencies. Everything but the kitchen sink, you might say."

  "Everything?" I echoed. "You mean that you — you don't want a hand in the process?"

  "Coaxing clients to choose the garden for a reception, or spending days on the telephone with the vicar of the nice little chapel in the neighboring village, trying to coax him into conducting a wedding service for strangers?" said Lady Amanda. "No, thank you. I am content booking events and greeting the clients as the lovely lady of Cliffs House — I have absolutely no interest in knowing what pattern of china they want for their wedding breakfast, or what Vera Wang designer gown they insist on having shipped here for their engagement party. I'm happy to let you worry about all of those things, and hear the juicy details later from the girls downstairs."

  My head was floating above my shoulders now. I wasn't sure if I was scared or elated — after all, I was now in charge of every event planned at Cliffs House. I was the person whom brides of any background or nationality would look to for answers. I took a firm grip on my teacup's saucer and steeled myself for it. I knew what I was doing. I'd spent years studying it, practicing i
t on a smaller scale at Design a Dream, so what could possibly go wrong that I couldn't deal with?

  "Why did you hire me?" I asked. "An American? Surely somebody English would make more sense."

  "You'd be surprised how many international guests we host now," said Lady Amanda. "I didn't necessarily need local knowledge or the 'stiff upper lip' image, as you would put it. So many of our visitors are American these days, too — that's television's doing, again." She took another sip of tea. "I interviewed several candidates from Exeter, Oxford, even London. But when your name popped up on a list of employees from a U.S. business that planned a wedding of a friend of mine...well, something about it just seemed right."

  Maybe it was kismet, I thought, remembering my grandmother's old-fashioned term for destined good luck. Maybe it was karma, as my spirituality-seeking friend Nate back home in Seattle would say. Or maybe it was destiny, as Lady Amanda suggested. Me finding a place of my own after years of languishing at the bottom of Design a Dream's career ladder.

  "There's a list of local resources, businesses that cater, florists, musicians, and so on," said Lady Amanda. "As well as ones available from everywhere from Devon to London — anyone you might need to hire, from chamber orchestras to couture designers — although you look like a bright young woman who knows how to use the internet and a mobile to learn things." Here, Lady Amanda's impish smile returned.

  "The staff here is capable of handling quite a bit," she continued. "Dinah is our chef, a graduate of a French cooking academy, and Gemma and Pippa assist her in catering any number of events. We have a hothouse and gardening staff, with quite a selection of flowers, with no small thanks to a brilliant horticulturist currently residing in Cornwall."

  "It sounds so elegant," I said. "Like a four-star hotel." I pictured escargot and French pastries alongside a perfectly-carved rib roast, and vases brimming with English roses. Cliffs House was not the size of a manor like Pemberley or a castle from Arthurian legend, but it was such a beautiful, romantic spot. Who wouldn't want to have their wedding near the rugged English moors, overlooking a ribbon of water curving along those ancient cliffs?

  "I'll see to it that you're settled properly in the office closest to mine. A former morning parlor, in case you're interested — just shove aside whatever antique andirons and stuffed birds are cluttering up the place."

  "I'm sure I'll be very comfortable," I answered, with a grin. "Even if I have to rearrange whatever empty suits of armor are taking up my desk's spot." Lady Amanda hid her smile behind her teacup, but her eyes were still twinkling.

  "So let's get to it," said Lady Amanda, after she set aside her tea. "The only event of importance in the diary right now is the Price-Parker - Borroway union, of course. The groom-to-be booked us six months ago after announcing his engagement, and now the bride-to-be will be here to finish planning the reception for the next couple of weeks or so. Starting today, actually." She checked her watch, then sprang up from her chair. "I'll introduce you to the staff, then take you to meet them after I change into something a bit more suitable."

  I was amazed. Fifteen minutes of chat, and I was already on my way to meet the celebrity couple. Quickly, I set aside my teacup and rose to my feet, smoothing my charcoal pencil skirt, hoping my hair's loosely-pinned style was sensible enough for whatever standards Cliffs House had for its newest representative. Lady Amanda had forgotten to clue me in on how I should dress, speak, and behave when talking to clients, especially since I was from 'across the pond.'

  Her glance fell to my feet as I walked with her to the office door. "Lovely shoes," she said. "Are those Valentino?"

  "They are," I admitted.

  "Divine," she answered. "That's really my only reason to venture into the boutiques of Truro these days — shoe shopping. I always find that slipping on a perfect pair makes me feel as if I could conquer the world. But how did you ever find a pair in such an exquisite color?"

  I had a feeling that Lady Amanda's standards, whatever they were, would suit me just fine.

  ***

  Bride-to-be Petal Borroway was originally from Southampton, but had spent the last decade modeling in Milan, New York, and a dozen other places, where she was most famous for appearing in an advertisement for chip-resistant nail varnish — and for getting engaged to Donald Price-Parker, who was something of a heartthrob in Great Britain.

  Petal exuded glam — I would have declared her a model, or a wannabe model if I hadn't known already. Flawless skin, perfect makeup, delicate bone structure that seemed almost sculpted. Her clothes were casual, yet screamed expensive. As did those of Donald, whose body was a trifle over-muscular beneath his tight t-shirt and summer jacket, his blond hair cut short against his head. He had the powerful brooding-and-sullen stare that makes many women go weak in the knees, but for me it was a little too much. Tarzan in designer clothes, exerting his animal prowess over women.

  They were side by side on the velvet sofa in Cliffs House's main drawing room. Petal's hand rested constantly on some part of Donald's body — hand, shoulder, arm, thigh, shifting gradually and possessively every time he moved — and showing off the spectacular diamond on her finger.

  "So why choose Cornwall?" I asked, in my best professional voice. "What makes this part of England so special to both of you?"

  At Design a Dream, standard operating procedure had been to ask the bride and groom why they chose their wedding location. It helped determine how central to the wedding's theme the marriage or reception site would be — and how much of it would be brushed over or disguised to avoid clashing with said image. Since my job would primarily be coordinating their reception, I needed to know as much about their choice as I could.

  "Weekends and what not," said Donald. He had a rather lazy drawl that surprised me. It made him sound as if he wanted to fall asleep. "I've had a place in Cornwall on and off for the past few years. Surfing in Newquay and so on. Weddings in London feel rather hack these days." He looked away from his mobile for the first time since Lady Amanda had introduced us, finally paying some attention now that the topic of his wedding was at hand.

  "But you chose Ceffylgwyn," I said. "It must be special to one of you."

  "Donald races in St Austell," answered Petal. "A hobby of sorts, now that he's not surfing in Newquay anymore. He was a big fan of the Trelawny Tigers. That's why we're taking a place along the coast in Truro instead of our old one."

  Maybe it was my imagination, but I was picking up on signals that Petal wasn't exactly thrilled by this move. Maybe it was just the tiniest arch of her eyebrows as she said it, or the fact that she inspected her nails for a brief second when mentioning Truro — her presumably chip-resistant nail varnish. Nevertheless, she snuggled closer to Donald's body.

  "Anyway — here we are," said Donald. "Doing the whole 'Cornish thing' for the big day and so on."

  "A traditional Cornish wedding?" I ventured.

  I hadn't been anticipating something like this, not so quickly, and I felt a quick patter of panic in my chest. This couple had no idea, of course, that I had only been in Cornwall for a day. I wondered what sort of traditions a Cornish wedding entailed — especially for two people who weren't natives, as they just explained.

  "Just a few touches, here and there," said Petal. "We want something to make us feel at home in Cornwall, since we'll be splitting our time between here and London. At least for awhile." She smiled at Donald with a lingering, lovey-dovey glance passing between them, then looked at me with a smile. "And some of my friends will be coming from America, so we want them to have a taste of Cornwall. It's such a chic place right now. Who wouldn't want to show it off a little?"

  At first impression, I didn't like her. Maybe it was the bored look in her eyes when her fiancé talked for more than a few sentences, or the way she looked annoyed during Lady Amanda's guided tour of Cliffs House's large music and dining rooms reserved for the wedding, curling a lock of her long hair around one finger at times, and sighing quietly. But her smi
le for me, inclusive and almost friendly, made me soften a little bit.

  "Let's talk about what you want to show off most, then," I said, switching subjects. "You want touches of Cornwall, so that will obviously be part of your wedding theme. A country wedding — or city sophistication, with touches of the country?"

  "A city wedding," said Petal at the same time as Donald said, "Country." They exchanged glances. For a moment, I thought Petal looked tense — or upset — but it cleared from her eyes when Donald spoke.

  "Whatever. I'll be off at St Austell most of the time. Not as if I care." He shrugged. "Just something that'll look good in the papers. Champagne, expense. So on."

  "I think we can manage that," said Petal, looking at me as she spoke. "Donald just wants something elegant...but simple. My dress is couture fashion, the cake is from an exclusive bakery in Newquay — I'll send you the details on them. The ceremony and reception should be just as exclusive ... if a touch dressed down, of course."

  "Simple but expensive," clarified Donald, in case I hadn't understood this.

  "Besides, I was thinking it would be nice to return to our roots," said Petal. "I've been away from England for several years, and Donald's been traveling the continent. I suppose it makes sense to have a little nod to tradition for this wedding, don't you agree?"

  "Absolutely," I said. Country sophistication, a dash of Cornish culture — surely I could do that, with a little help from Cliffs House's knowledgeable, local staff. "I'm sure we can plan an English wedding you both will be proud of."

  "But with a few American touches," piped up Petal. "I don't want to completely forget where I've been the last few years. And Donald loves cultural fusion, don't you, darling?" She was sidling close to him, draped effortlessly against his shoulder. The two of them certainly seemed fused together as he rested his cheek against her hair with a soft grunt of agreement — except his eyes hadn't left the digital screen of his phone.